


Censored

by obscure_affection



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, also yes all locations are real, holiday fic but without actual holidays, i do not claim to own any of these pictures either, if the pictures don't upload please tell me, like the huns in mulan, sherlock and jim just sort of pop up in unexpected places, this is rather fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:53:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscure_affection/pseuds/obscure_affection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘You’re not a sociopath or a psychopath or any of that nonsense. You’re just not a very nice person.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Censored

 

 

 

_Canada, Ottawa, Canadian National Galley_  
 _Midnight  
_  
Sherlock was smoking. High tar. John wouldn’t approve but he didn’t care. Inhale. Delicious burn down his throat, into his lungs. Exhale. He watched the smoke curl out into the night air, rushing from his parted lips.  
  
‘Smoking kills,’ called a voice he recognised.  
  
Sherlock turned to it, smiling. Typical.  
  
Jim was standing under the gigantic spider. Over nine meters tall, its frail metal legs surrounded him like a cage. The freezing air had forced Jim into wearing a large, fur lined jacket. It was darker than Sherlocks and probably more expensive. Oh well.  
  
‘Bad habit,’ he replied, flicking the cigarette away and joining Jim under the spider. Close up, Sherlock was able to study Jim properly. Large black-brown eyes in a pale face, dark hair combed back. Neat. Professional. He didn’t look tired, which annoyed Sherlock. Thanks to a late flight and turbulence, he was exhausted and looked it.  
  
‘They spent over three million on this spider, you know,’ Jim commented, looking up at the underbelly. They could see the 26 marble eggs contained in its stomach, suspended in the air above them.   
  
‘Maman. An American artists tribute to her mother. Quite fitting actually, for a mother.’  
  
Jim laughed at this, and Sherlock smiled grimly. Mummy dearest. It was a strange situation to be in. The both of them standing happily under the spider, no guns and no subtext. No game. Well, not yet.   
  
Just the cold Canadian air and stars. And spiders.  
  
‘You think of me as a spider.’  
  
‘You are a spider,’ Sherlock corrected. ‘There’s a difference.’  
  
‘Do you know what I see you as?’  
  
‘An angel? Or maybe a fly for you to devour?’  
  
Jim let out a soft laugh. He looked beautiful now, pale and content. Surrounded by blackness, enveloped in it. As was he.  
  
‘You’re not an angel, Sherlock. It took me a while to realise that. If anything you’re more devil than me.’  
  
‘Oh?’  
  
Without looking at him, Jim reached out and took Sherlocks hand. Surprised, Sherlock held it. They were both wearing gloves, but he could still feel the warmth of Jim.  
  
‘You tortured my cabbie. You’ve let people die to prove you’re clever. That blind old lady died because of you, you know. Not to mention the drugs you hide from doctor Watson. I might have covered him in bombs but I didn’t detonate them. I didn’t have you shot. Either of you. I’ve never physically harmed you. And I never would. But you’d harm me, wouldn’t you? Just like Mycroft did.’  
  
Sherlock felt something hot and uncomfortable bubble in his stomach at the words. Guilt, shock, the uncomfortable truth. He would hurt Jim. Like Mycroft had. If winning the game, solving the puzzle, meant hurting, killing, not caring… he could do it. Yet-  
  
‘You’re hardly innocent, Jim. You have people killed all the time. Getting other people to shoot them for you doesn’t stop you from being a killer.’  
  
Then Jim turned to Sherlock, using his free hand to turn Sherlocks face towards his own. He was applying almost no pressure to Sherlocks face at all, his gloved fingers ghosting over his skin.  
  
‘You’re not a sociopath or a psychopath or any of that nonsense. You’re just not a very nice person.’   
‘Neither of you.’  
  
‘But my hands are clean, Sherlock. They’ll stay clean too.’  
  
Jim leant up, kissing Sherlock under the spider. It wasn’t a demanding kiss, it wasn’t a threat or a promise or anything like that. No metaphor, no message, just a slow warm kiss. Sherlock hesitated, then closed his eyes. Everything was dark, close, wet. Jim seemed to purr, his tongue inquisitive. They were still holding hands. It had been nine years since somebody had kissed Sherlock like this.  
  
Jim pulled his lips and hand away at the same time, leaving Sherlock feeling cold. Feeling awful, actually. He’d killed people and hurt people and didn’t regret it. Would do it again. He had looked into that cabbies eyes and screamed at him, hurting him. Angel. Spider.  
  
‘I’ll see you soon, Sherlock,’ Jim whispered.  
  
He walked away, leaving Sherlock surrounded by the spiders lanky metal limbs. Stars swirled above them both. Sherlock tasted Jim. He needed another smoke, and soon. Jim didn’t look back, and vanished from sight.  
  
   
  

_Italy, Turin, Palatine Towers_  
 _Sunrise  
_  
The sun was blinding, everywhere at once. Huge beams of yellow, gold, orange and red assaulted Sherlocks eyes. Jim had obviously planned ahead, because he was wearing dark sunglasses. He smirked at Sherlock, smug.  
  
Sherlock reached over and pushed Jim, playfully, just enough to give him a scare. They were both sitting atop the smaller of the two towers, swinging their legs. It was too early for the tourists.    
  
‘Naughty. You could have pushed me off.’  
  
‘I never push too far.’  
  
‘I doubt that. Didn’t you overdose three times?’  
  
Sherlock considered actually pushing Jim off but dismissed the idea. Even if he couldn’t see them, he didn’t doubt Jims snipers were close by. They’d both taken their jackets off. Jim had folded his and Sherlock had thrown his off the edge, watching it fall to the ground.  
  
‘I guess Mycroft told you all the lurid details of my past?’  
  
‘Most of them. Though he refused to tell me any embarrassing childhood stories.’   
  
Jim pouted, raising his eyebrows.  
  
What stories would he like to hear? What would interest him?   
  
Sherlock hesitated for only a second.  
  
‘When I was nine I tried to drive fathers car. I ran over the neighbours cat. It was an accident, but Mycroft always thought I’d done it on purpose. I never liked that cat. I could tell you some brilliant stories about Mycroft as a kid.’  
  
He smiled to himself, imagining what his brother would do if he told Jim all about the incident on his twelfth birthday. The sun had half-risen now, its burning orb impossible to look at directly.  
  
Again, Jim reached for Sherlock, wrapping their hands together. Neither of them were wearing gloves this time, and the touch of Sherlocks calloused skin against Jims smooth hands was strangely intimate.    
  
‘Won’t your cronies wonder why we’re holding hands?’  
  
‘What makes you think anyone is watching?’  
  
Sherlock snorted.  
  
‘Only Sebastian. He’s about fifty meters away. He won’t ask any awkward questions. He understands about us.’  
  
‘Us?’ Sherlock couldn’t prevent his obvious incredulity.  
  
‘Well. He understands me. He’s my John.’  
  
‘John doesn’t understand me.’  
  
‘I do.’  
  
‘Perhaps.’  
  
This time Jim laughed, and the sound was so innocent, so free of care, that Sherlock wanted to cry for no reason. When was the last time he’d laughed like that? He didn’t doubt that Jim was a bad person (like him) but at least Jim embraced it, every element of himself. Uncensored.   
  
‘Does Sebastian really understand you?’  
  
Jim beamed at him.  
  
‘No. Of course not. He’s my John, remember? He isn’t meant to understand. He’s just meant to be there.’  
  
Sherlock nodded. He would never admit it in a thousand years, but he was nervous. Last time they’d kissed they’d been standing in the dark with smoke and the spiders cage. Isolated. And they might be alone now, but they were very much in the light this time, there would be no denial of what-  
  
‘Scared?’  
  
He kept quiet.  
  
‘I know you’re scared. And I know why, too.’  
  
‘You do?’  
  
Sherlock hated himself for asking. For not knowing. He was uncomfortable on the tower. He wanted a pillow and some tea.  
  
‘I do. But I’m not going to tell you. Yet.’  
  
‘Ok.’  
  
Instead of telling him, Jim kissed him. An open-mouth kissed. Far more insistent than the last time, making Sherlock dizzy with want and fear. Dizzy. They were so high up…  
  
Jim ran his hand up the back of Sherlocks neck, his fingers gripping his curls. So dizzy. Sherlock moaned into the kiss. Wanted it. They both had such pale skin, the sun was reflecting off them like mirrors-   
  
They broke apart, but Jims hand remained tight in his hair. Panting, Sherlock made no protest when Jim began to kiss a line down his neck, sucking softly at his skin. Teasing him. Sherlock closed his eyes. Jim kissed his eyelids.  
  
The sun had risen properly. Soon the tourists would be swarming.  
  
‘Time to go,’ Jim said, and Sherlock nodded.  
  
They climbed down in silence, and didn’t bother saying goodbye as they walked away in different directions.  
  


_Vietnam, Halong Bay, floating houses._  
 _11am  
_  
At first, everything about the location annoyed Sherlock. Lacking in technology, lacking in english speakers, and far too many bugs. He’d felt cut off from everything. Wasn’t that meant to be a peaceful feeling? Nature sabbatical indeed. Pah. He’d almost given up on enjoying himself when Jim arrived.  
  
They almost didn’t recognise each other.  
  
Jim was wearing a dirty cotton shirt, sunglasses, shorts and sandals. His skin was still pale, but his hair was no longer groomed with almost painful precision. It was a fluffy halo around his face. Halo? A dark halo then, for a dark kind of angel. For once, he seemed tired, his brown eyes downcast.   
  
At first he hadn’t spotted Sherlock.  
  
Unlike Jim, Sherlock had tanned a little. Freckles were collecting on his shoulders, and he was only wearing cut-off jeans. He’d been relaxing on the veranda, watching some local children play with a large bug they’d captured.  
  
‘Sherlock?’  
  
He turned, astounded.  
  
‘Jim?’  
  
Jim raised his hand, waving. The fact that Jim had found him (and found him before Mycroft) was astounding. Slightly flattering. Deeply worrying. Yet Sherlock felt privately satisfied, and let himself smile honestly as Jim sat down beside him.  
  
‘Nice place you have here. Rudimentary, but picturesque.’    
  
‘How’d you find me?’  
  
‘I was here for business, actually. Then I heard you’d done another of your vanishing acts. Just mere coincidence we picked the same country.’   
  
Sherlock was itching to ask about the business, but decided not to. This wasn’t about work. Never had been, in fact.  
  
‘That doesn’t explain how you found me. I almost didn’t recognise you.’  
  
‘I’ll tell you how I worked it out… Someday. Not today. Just think of it as your animal magnetism.’   
  
Sherlock snorted. He had a wind-up camera with him (the kind of awful throw-away camera that tourists used because it was cheap and light) and he picked it up now, snapping a picture of Jim.  
  
‘I’m posting that to the internet.’  
  
‘Don’t you dare, Sherlock Holmes.’  
  
He grinned. Even Sebastian Moran would have trouble recognising Jim like this, he thought. It was brilliant. He took another photo, and this time Jim smiled bashfully for the camera, peering at Sherlock from under his eyelashes.  
  
‘You’d be a great actor,’ Sherlock said, dryly.   
  
‘Oh, but I am. I am.’  
  
They fell into a peaceful silence together. The house was a bright blue, the paint peeling but still vibrant. The roof was red and study, no leaks, for which Sherlock was devoutly thankful. It rocked gently on the water.  
  
‘Why’d you run away this time, Sherlock?’  
  
‘Such private questions are better answered in private.’  
  
Sherlock didn’t pause for Jim, but stood up and lead him inside, still holding the camera. After a few days of living in it, Sherlock had gotten his sea legs. He hardly felt the rock of the house under him now.   
  
He’d been given his own tiny bedroom, and it was the only place he could be sure of privacy. Trying not to over-think what he was doing, he lead Jim to it. It was a room containing almost entirely bed.  
  
They sat on the bed together. Careful not to touch.  
  
‘So, why?’  
  
‘Why am I even telling you this?’  
  
Jim merely smiled, and inched closer so their thighs touched. It was comforting, somehow. The kind of thing John should do but never did.  
  
‘They don’t understand. You know that. I got bored. I did something… a bit not good. That’s what they call it. A bit not good. Anyway, John got angry. So did Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. They refuse to listen. It’s like they think I choose this. All that want to do is… I don’t know. I just feel so…’  
  
‘Censored? Boxed in?’  
  
Sherlock hung his head, ashamed. They cared about him, John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He liked them. Most of the time, anyway, in his own way. Even if his own way wasn’t enough.  
  
Sensing the direction of his thoughts, Jim wound his arm around Sherlocks chest. Feeling desperate -adrift- he turned to Jim, seeking the understanding that continued to elude him. Their lips met in the middle.  
  
Kissing Jim was a strange thing. A good thing. Something Sherlock had started to think about in his spare time, something he’d started to miss. He held Jim now, clinging to his pale arms. He’d almost forgotten he was shirtless until Jim ran his hands up his spine. Sherlock gasped, pulling away, and Jim laughed softly. He kissed Sherlocks nipples, kissed a line down his stomach, kissed him until he wasn’t him anymore…  
  
They were pressed onto the bed, limbs entwined and breathing hard. Jim was looking at him with burning brown eyes, the wide predatory smile Sherlock had seen at the pool distorting his face. His chin was resting on Sherlocks stomach.  
  
Fumbling, Sherlock grabbed his camera and took a photo. He had no doubt that Sebastian would recognise that smile, should he ever see the photo. That was pure Moriarty.  
  
‘Jim Moriarty.’  
  
‘Hi!’  
  
They smiled.  
  
‘How long can you stay?’  
  
The smile faded from his face, he pressed his lips into Sherlocks hipbone before answering him.  
  
‘Only a few more hours. I’m a busy man.’  
  
Sherlock nodded. Not enough time, then. For what? To sleep with him? Do they even want that? He had no idea what he wanted, not in this. This was something he was lost in, wasn’t in control of.  
  
‘You were right, you know.’  
  
‘I’m usually right,’ Jim quipped. ‘About what specifically?’    
  
‘I do feel censored. And I’m not a very nice person.’  
  
‘I know.’  
  
Jim kissed him, held him. They listened to the beating of their hearts. Sherlock explored the interior of Jims palms, the soft pale skin, reading the lines. In return, Sherlock let Jim give him a head-massage, his fingers threading through Sherlocks curls.  
  
Once he was gone, Sherlock was no longer annoyed by the isolation of his location. It felt serene. Important. He was desperate to get the photos developed. Mycroft found him two days later.  
  


_England, London, Camden Catacombs_  
 _Dusk  
_  
Sherlock knew he was waiting for Jim. What he didn’t know was their final destination, or why Jim was late. Somehow he didn’t think Jim was the sort of person who was ever late.  
  
Being back in London had meant a return to Sherlocks usual dress. The scarf, the silk shirts, the long blue jacket were all in place. It was chilly, but not yet cold. John was on a date with a woman called Mary. Neither of them knew it yet (it was blatantly obvious to Sherlock) but they’d be married before the end of the year. He was sure of it.  
When Jim arrived, he looked nothing like the tired traveller Sherlock had kissed in Vietnam. He was in an expensive suit, his hair smooth (though not gelled, merely combed neatly) and his shoes polished. He looked like he’d walked right out of a spy movie.  
  
‘Evening, Sherlock.’  
  
‘Evening.’  
  
‘Have you decuded our destination?’  
  
‘I have a few theories, yes.’  
  
Jim gave Sherlock a slow, nasty smile. Ah. He was still ‘in character’ then, still Moriarty. It wasn’t an act, not really. Moriarty was Jim and Jim was Moriarty. The difference between them was simple: business, personal.  
  
Jim was personal.  
  
They fell into step, side by side. He wondered distantly if Mycroft was watching them on cctv. It seemed unlikely though, as Mycroft was currently in Russia and couldn’t be disturbed unless there was an emergency.  
  
‘The catacombs?’  
  
Nodding, Jim led the way. Downwards. It was a dry, slightly dank series of old rocky corridors through which Jim led him. Once upon a time they’d been used as stables. Now they were mostly unknown, or at least obscure.  
  
‘I have a few rooms down here,’ Jim confided, smiling more warmly.  
  
‘A few rooms?’  
  
‘For when I feel like some down time. A little easier than running away to Vietnam.’  
  
‘How many people have you taken down here?’  
  
‘Five.’  
  
Sherlock considered this.  
  
‘Did all five come out?’  
  
‘No. But that wasn’t my fault. Not exactly.’  
  
Sherlock laughed. The fact that Jim had sealed off parts of the catacombs for his own personal amusement and privacy was something Sherlock couldn’t help but admire. His love for London was based upon its unprovable elements, its corners and nooks.   
  
‘Here we go…’ Jim threw his shoulder against a mostly concealed door. He put all his strength behind it, and slowly it began to move. He could have helped, but somehow Sherlock preferred to watch. It was unusual to see Jim physically struggle with anything.   
  
The interior of Jims catacomb was quite tasteful. He’d put a few expensive paintings up on the walls, had am antique movie projector, a few skeletons (tiger, horse, raven, snake) and a large metal four poster bed.  
  
‘This is…’  
  
‘Lavish? Insane? Extreme?’  
  
‘Good. Very good.’  
  
Jim beamed at his assessment. The whole place suited him, somehow. It was the kind of setting Sherlock could imagine Jim in, sipping wine and watching black and white movies.  
  
‘It has wifi too.’  
  
‘Excellent.’  
  
Acting on an unspoken agreement, they both sat on the bed. There was a large lounge they could have sat on, but that never even entered Sherlocks mind. Somehow that would seem like a step backward.  
  
‘Have you worked it out yet, Sherlock?’  
  
‘No.’  
  
‘Do you want me to tell you?’  
  
‘No.’  
  
Jim considered him, dark eyes calculating. He should feel fear, but he didn’t. Still the addict. Yet it didn’t feel like a risk, didn’t feel like escape, distraction. Sherlock felt very much within his skin, pulling against it without bursting.  
  
It was a good feeling.  
  
‘Would you like a clue?’  
  
Slowly, Jim licked his lips, his eyes jumping quickly over Sherlocks body. The stars would be coming out around now.  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
Jim nodded, leant forward, and put both his hands on either side of Sherlocks face. He held him in place, looking into Sherlock. Not past him, over or through him, but into. It was nothing like being worried over by John, or examined by Mycroft.  
  
Slowly, Sherlock closed his eyes.  
  
As if that had been the sign he’d been waiting for, Jim kissed him. He bit Sherlocks lower lip and tugged at it, still holding his face. Sherlock sighed deeply, reaching blindly to put his hands on Jims hips.  
  
He was pushed backwards into the bed, allowing Jim to press him down into the mattress. They were wearing far too many clothes. Far too many. Really. As if reading his mind, Jim was pulling away his scarf (licking a line up Sherlocks neck) undid his buttons (kissing his chest, sucking on his nipples) Sherlocks coat was lost, and he didn’t even care.  
  
Virginity. He wasn’t a virgin. He’d slept with somebody at university. Once. He remembered it. Mostly. He’d been high, but he’d wanted to. Curious. He didn’t remember who it was…  
  
Sherlock had no respect for other peoples clothes, and pulled off Jims shirt with a minimum of care. He tossed it away, delighted by the expanse of skin pressing into him. Jim had a few scars, his skin was soft, heated. They were kissing hard, legs wrapped around each other.  
  
‘Is the clue helping?’ Jim gasped against Sherlocks shoulder.  
  
‘Yes. I think I…’  
  
The idea fluttered. Realisation was so close. He could feel understanding at the edge of his brain, pulling at him. Come on come on come on. I’m not a nice person a spider my hands are clean I feel boxed in-  
  
Jims hand crept down towards Sherlocks crotch, and his train of thought was utterly forgotten as a hand curled around his obvious arousal. A tiny noise, almost pained, emerged from somewhere in his chest. Smirking, Jim began to unzip his fly. Sherlock made no protest, throwing his head back onto the pillow, panting openly. This was really going to happen.  
  
Jim had stripped Sherlock (and looked very pleased with himself) but Sherlock knew enough to insist upon playing fair in such situations.  
  
‘Yours too,’ he half-gasped. Jim nodded, silently wriggling out of the rest of his own clothes. Both naked, breathing hard and flushed, they lay side by side on the bed. Think, Sherlock, think…  
  
Spiders and dark angels.  
  
‘Have you worked it out yet, Sherlock?’  
  
‘I think so…’  
  
He knew (somehow) that if he got the answer right, if he found it within himself to answer with the truth, Jim would sleep with him. Would fuck him. Make love to him.  Whatever they wanted to call it these days.  
  
Would Jim kill him if he got it wrong?  
  
Sherlock had killed people. Directly as well as indirectly.   
  
‘Yes?’  
  
‘I…’ Sherlock closed his eyes. ‘Without you, I’m nothing.’  
  
Jim climbed on top of Sherlock, their bodies pressed together. He could feel everything. Everything. The dark eyes above him were manically happy and deeply touched. They kissed, and Jim pressed his hips into Sherlock. Loosing himself in the kiss, in everything, in what was about to happen, Sherlock almost missed the next words that Jim said to him, whispered into him brokenly.  
  
‘You’re me.’  
  
 

 


End file.
